Classic Poem

Thou who in thy woob hast promising content,
Leaves traces of soul's amendments
Enduring infallible discipline, that
Which generation arrears in confiscation;
But feigned gentlety shall passion demur,
And truth of morning's autumn air
Breathes the hums of blossoms' greens into
Our sphere of exhilaration, as shadows pure
Pass and refade. Still, memory through
Sensual debate lures the unseen lyre,
But none are too many within pathos' gate,
That wend their pensive guides from far east.
Who sprung Achaean's muse abroad
That gasped in silver air-line spray? —
As art from masters great hath won the least.